Flipping Coins
by Ergott
Summary: What if the Threepio and Artoo had come to Tatooine a couple years earlier, their memories of the past several decades fully intact? Young Luke Skywalker is about to learn more of his father than he had ever hoped to or, perhaps, even wanted to.
1. Flip One

**Flipping Coins**

Summary: What if the Threepio and Artoo had come to Tatooine a couple years earlier, their memories of the past several decades fully intact? Young Luke Skywalker is about to learn more of his father than he had ever hoped to or, perhaps, even wanted to. And, while he listens to a droid's story about what had to be the strangest Jedi in the history of the galaxy, the Empire draws ever closer, desperate to reclaim their secret plans before the young Rebel Alliance can pull together the strength to topple the fragile Imperial power.

Rating: T (PG-13) for mild, albeit imaginary, swearing and mentions of death, violence, and murder.

Warnings: All right, I love classic Vader as much as anyone but, for the purposes of this story, he's a little more Anakin-y than anything else. Just because he's a Dark Lord of the Sith doesn't mean he's any less impulsive or prone to getting into trouble than before. The suit means making adjustments, but it doesn't change who he is on the inside.

And as for Palpatine, well… he was an expert manipulator, but you don't spring an all-powerful Empire up overnight. He's a little old, his face's been melted, and even the best plans tend to go wrong.

* * *

Flip One

Fate was fickle, Chance was capricious and, if some of the ancient Jawa legends were true, they were mischievous siblings. Chance, being easily amused, flipped coins. And Fate, loving irony, used those coins to change the course of history. Eons sometimes went by without their interference, but other times they flipped so many coins that a sentient being could barely eat a meal without an ethereal clank to decide what sort of meat would be dined upon. Sometimes Fate was subtle in his workings, steering gently in order to achieve the appropriate flip's outcome, and sometimes he was not, achieving such improbable situations that it had led to their worship. Sometimes Chance was kind, and flipped a coin to choose between only good possibilities, and sometimes she was not, flipping only between the worst ideas she could think of.

All these thoughts zipped through the back of Owen Lars's head as he stared at two hauntingly familiar droids. Of course, protocol and astromech droids were popular designs, and he couldn't quite remember the call numbers of the droids he had known all those years ago but, all the same, he had the uneasy feeling that, despite the overwhelming odds against such a chance occurrence, he was looking at the selfsame units. He could practically smell the metallic tang of an ancient coin; Fate and Chance were laughing their asses off at his expense.

A small twinge warned him not to do it—perhaps it was the Force that crazy old Kenobi was always harping on about—warned him not to buy the droids from this Jawa caravan, but he needed an R2 unit to help with repairs around the farm and Beru was desperate for a droid that could translate. He could let these two go by, but who knew when the next caravan would visit? Things were getting tight at the farm; vaporators were breaking down left and right, faster than he or his nephew Luke could fix them. No, he couldn't do it; no matter how bad a feeling it left him with, Owen knew he had to buy these two units.

"They look pretty beat up, Uncle Owen," Luke commented when the older man finally managed to herd the droids over to an outbuilding.

"I'm sure it's nothing you can't handle," Owen said with a tight smile. And it was true; despite only being nine, Luke could fix anything he set his mind and hands to. It was natural for the boy know about vaporators, having grown up around them, but Luke had an uncanny knowledge for machinery, like he somehow just _knew_ what was going on behind all that metal plating.

And that was a kick in the gut, more than anything else. Every time Owen saw Luke bent over some contraption that the boy had pieced together from scraps, his blond hair glinting like white fire in the twin suns and his blue eyes focused with a knowledge and cunning that belied his short years, he couldn't help but be reminded of another boy. Granted, he hadn't known Anakin Skywalker very well, but he'd heard stories of the amazing escapades of an uncommonly gifted slave, and he had seen the man enough to know that Luke held much of his father within himself. And that worried him, no matter how many times Kenobi had assured them that everything would work out for the best. Did Luke have so much of his father in him at he would turn as Anakin had? Owen didn't know how to raise a Force-sensitive child, how was he supposed to know what was good and what was bad for someone of Luke's talents? He had toyed for a while with the idea of banning Luke from tinkering with the machines, of trying to temper out this frighteningly coincidental hobby, but Owen had dismissed it quickly because he knew that Luke would only turn his attention to something else that would remind him of Anakin—perhaps even something dangerous, like racing.

Luke ignored his suddenly silent guardian. Uncle Owen did that a lot, seemed to look to a far away and sad or frightening place, and Luke had learned that his Uncle only got upset when he was interrupted, so he left the older man alone.

Luke turned his attention to the new droids—although nothing was ever really _new_ on Tatooine, just unfamiliar. And it was the same with these droids; they weren't new at all if the scuffing and scorch-marks on their plating was anything to go by, but they were unfamiliar to Luke, so that made them exciting. Too bad it looked like they really only needed a good cleaning, he thought disappointedly; still, he perked up, you never knew what you might find on the inside.

"I want those droids ready to be put to work by tomorrow," his Uncle suddenly said.

"Yes, Uncle Owen," he replied, more out of habit than acknowledgement, as the older man left. He'd tried several times already to impress upon his Uncle that these things could not be rushed, because rushing made you miss stuff that you would only end up repairing later when it finally became a big problem, but no one ever listened to a nine year old. The droids would be ready when he was finished, and he wouldn't be finished until he knew that every last inch of _both_ units were in the best condition possible.

"So, what's your name?" Luke asked conversationally as he began to inspect the taller of the two droids. He found that it was often easier to repair something if he talked to it, even if the machine in question had no way of responding.

"I am C3P0, human-cyborg relations, and this," he indicated the other droid with a stiff jerk of his arm, "is my counterpart, R2D2."

The cylindrical astromech droid swiveled his dome-shaped head and gave a hooting-chirp that Luke could only assume was a greeting; either that, or the cheeky little unit was cursing at him.

"I'm Luke Skywalker," he introduced distractedly, noting that the protocol droid seemed to only need an oil bath to clean the sand out of his joints.

"How very curious," the gold colored droid responded in that strangely accented voice of his.

Luke looked up from his inspection of the droid's back control panel. "What's curious?" he asked, moving away to start preparing the oil bath.

Threepio cocked his head to the side as much as the rotating motor-joints in his neck would allow—which admittedly wasn't much. "Well you see, sir, I was built on this planet by a boy named Skywalker."

That stopped Luke in his tracks. "Anakin Skywalker?" he asked, holding his breath. Was this it, he though; was this that elusive connection to his father that he'd been seeking for so many years?

"That's the very name!" Threepio agreed.

Luke felt his heart jerk, his pulse race; slowly he turned around. "That was my father's name."

* * *

The Force… giggled. That was the only way to describe it, Darth Vader thought; it didn't shudder or ripple, it exploded in peals of bubbling delight. It was something he had felt before, when the Jedi Temple had been filled with untrained and easily excited youths, but to feel it here, above the cruel and desolate planet of Tatooine, was disconcerting. No one was that happy in those deserts, except for the Hutts, but most of them weren't Force-sensitive. Who in the nine-krething-hells could be so joyful down there and have such a strong presence in the Force?

Darth Vader sighed again, thinking how this mission was getting worse by the minute. It had all started when he'd had to call upon an Alderaanian Senator on a slight matter of treason, only to find out that Bail Organa had been more bewildered than terrified. Yes, he'd confirmed, they did have a pilot and two droids in their employ that matched the descriptions of who Vader was looking for. But, when Vader had asked to see them, Organa had, quite confusedly, responded that they had left Alderaan on an unauthorized mission. That had frustrated Vader more than anything else but, seeing as Senator Organa hadn't seemed to have the slightest clue as to what was going on, Vader had let the man go.

Thus had begun his chase of the elusive Captain Antilles and the two droids that were harboring stolen plans of the newest Imperial menace, the Death Star. The project was far from over, it would take several more years to complete, and it was imperative that the Empire reclaim those plans if it had any hope crushing the young Rebel Alliance before it became a greater threat. It hadn't taken much to catch up with Captain Antilles, but the story the man had revealed left him feeling beyond foolish.

They'd all been outsmarted by a nine year old. Leia Organa—the dark haired and dark eyed daughter of Bail, who reminded him so much of his long-lost Padmé—had orchestrated the whole thing with all the impulsive aplomb that only a child could achieve. In some senses he'd been quite impressed—it took nearly a Skywalker-level of talent and luck to pull off something like that—but he had also been annoyed as well. Were the people of Alderaan so blindly devoted to rebellion that no one thought to question the dubious orders of a nine year old? Oh, she'd been sneaky about it, certainly—relaying messages that had supposedly been given to her by her father—but had no one thought to double-check with Bail himself? It was a little ego bruising to know that he'd lost the Death Star schematics to the whims of a pre-pubescent schemer; not that he'd been guarding them all that closely, but it still smarted.

The final, stinging blow to his ego had been her forethought. For as hasty as little Leia's plan had seemed, she had obviously thought certain things through quite well, like the fact that the Empire would be looking to get the stolen plans back. By the time Vader had caught up to Captain Antilles the droids had already been long gone, dropped off somewhere by Leia's orders. Their trail wasn't particularly hard to _follow_, but it had been nearly impossible to guess where they were going _next_, hoping from one planet to another, and Vader had grown sorely tired of continually being one step behind a pair of droids—as if playing cosmic chess with Leia Organa wasn't embarrassing enough.

And now he was here, at the end of intergalactic goose-chase leading to one of the worst Outer Rim planets Vader had ever had the misfortune of being acquainted with, and being assaulted by the most annoyingly ecstatic Force-presence he'd ever come across. The little princess was going to be hearing from him when this was all over with—the fact that he wanted to have a strong talk with the girl rather than throttle her simply confirmed what he'd suspected for quite some time now: things had not turned out as he had expected.

Of course, the first time he'd awakened to the mechanical hiss of his own breathing, he'd been consumed by rage—_Damn you, Obi-Wan, look what you've turned me into!_—and grief—_Padmé, his little space angel, was gone!_—and he had given in to the darkness within him in almost all respects. But there had been a bleakness there that he had refused to succumb to because if there was anything a Skywalker knew how to be, it was resilient. Though he mourned for life as he'd known it, he knew that there was hope somewhere—there was _always_ hope somewhere, the Force made sure of that. Belatedly, it occurred to him that that wasn't exactly a though befitting a Sith Lord, but why deny what he knew to be true?

Knew to be true… his thoughts whirled in a different direction. Palpatine had used him, had used everyone around him to create a new order within the galaxy. Ironic how that had backfired on everyone, aside from those who openly opposed the Emperor. The Empire was fragile, powerful in and of itself, but mired down by inefficiency and incompetence; Palpatine was desperately trying to pull his little strings of manipulation, hoping to create an Empire that was more fearsome than it was comically inept; Vader was riddled with regrets and second thoughts, stuck somewhere between being a Dark Lord of the Sith and maybe just being a ticked off Anakin Skywalker stuck in an annoyingly restrictive suit; and the young Rebel Alliance was positively drowning in support to bring back the Old Republic—including a young mischievous princess.

Old Republic… they should have never started calling it that, for once something was termed Old, it was inevitable that it would seek a counterpart in something New. And the Empire was _not_ it; perhaps the Empire had been doomed from the very start, because it seemed painfully logical that now there had been an Old Republic, there had to be a New Republic. The Empire was only nine years old, and it already had an expiration date.

Vader may have been a dark Jedi, but he was not a fool: Palpatine had clearly not thought this far in advance. For all his cunning and trickery, the former Senator had had years to create and set into motion a plan to overthrow the Republic, but he obviously hadn't spared much thought to what would happen afterward. An Empire had been created, certainly, but Palpatine didn't seem to have a clue what to do with it, or even how to run it. His lust for power had been great, but his achievement of power had obviously bewildered him. The Sith Master who had seemed so wickedly crafty was suddenly like a blind old man trying to find his way through an unfamiliar city. And perhaps that was part of the problem: Palpatine was old. Even when Anakin had first met the Senator he had been in his twilight years, and time had certainly not been kind to the older man. Though the face-melting escapade with Mace Windu did make the Emperor appear more ancient than he truly was, it was clear that the passage of time had wreaked havoc on his intellect and health, making him perhaps the only Sith Master who was in danger of dying from old age.

He was no long so foolish as to believe that the Emperor knew of some mystic way to stave off death. Palpatine had simply known what bait to dangle in front of Anakin's eyes, and now that the point was irrelevant he was left wondering why he was still following the lying old man.

Because, for all his shortcomings, Palpatine was still strong and it would take more power than Vader had alone to destroy him. It wasn't impossible though—Anakin Skywalker had fought disastrously grim odds before and had still survived—but it would take time and careful planning, which was certainly not one of his strong points but he would learn if he had to. Funny how one of the men who had been instrumental in creating the Empire was now determined to be the man that would tear it apart.

He was, after all, the Chosen One; he had to restore balance where he could, even if it was his fault that things had swung so badly out of balance in the first place.

But those were thoughts for another time, Vader shook himself; right now he needed to focus on finding the two renegade droids hiding somewhere on the planet below him. As he ordered the closest officer to prepare his personal shuttle, Vader couldn't help but think how trivial this all suddenly seemed—he hated Tatooine and he didn't care if he actually got the Death Star plans back—but that giggle in the Force, he thought disgustedly, merited some sort of attention, even if it was only to find out what sort of strange masochist could achieve that level of pure joy in the burning sands of this backwater planet.

* * *

Obi-Wan Kenobi—the Jedi Master and Clone Wars General who had once been highly regarded across countless star systems for his fearless cunning and calm intellect—had just come to the realization that he was playing cards against himself. Tatooine could do that to you; the heat invaded every part of your being until you'd forgotten who you were, until the noon hours came filled with insanity and half-forgotten memories.

No, he thought with a frown, trying to shake away the haze that still enshrouded him, he'd been playing cards with Ben— but when had he stared to think of Ben as a different person?

Living alone on a planet like Tatooine had been an adjustment, and Obi-Wan was fairly certain he hadn't done it successfully. He'd come, of course, to keep an eye on young Luke, so the sacrifice had been well worth it, but… well, the planet held so few happy memories, and none of them were his. In some vain attempt to distance himself from the past—not completely to hide his identity, as he'd told Owen Lars—he had changed his name to Ben Kenobi. And, for the most part, he _was_ Ben—the peculiar hermit who lived off in the wastes on his own—but every time the noon hours' madness stirred in his veins, he went back to being Obi-Wan. The identity of Ben had begun to take on shades of the unreal to Obi-Wan; who _was_ this strange man he was pretending to be? Ben hid from the world, pretending he knew nothing of its cruelties, knew nothing of the truth, but Obi-Wan knew better.

The Jedi in him cried out with intuition borne of the Force: sitting out in the desert with his head buried in the sand, praying that the Empire would never turn its far-reaching eyes to this part of the galaxy was helping no one. He should be teaching Luke, he thought, telling the boy about his father, training him to understand the ways of the Force and, if nothing else, introducing Luke and Leia to one another. He had seen what a lack of blood-ties had driven Anakin to, time and again; how could Obi-Wan suffer to put his friend's children through the same ordeal? Granted, they were both living somewhat peacefully within their respective foster families, but the Force had to be screaming at them that something was wrong, something was missing.

He had helped perpetuate one of the biggest lies in the universe and, with a sudden, startling clarity, he knew it would only hurt everyone involved if he allowed it to continue. The Skywalker children had a right to know what had happened, a right to know their heritage. _But it wasn't safe_, another part of him—fearful Ben—whispered. Their lives would be turned upside down, Vader would come tearing out of the sky if he ever caught word of the truth, and even if he didn't hurt the twins, Palpatine would. Ben knew the importance of silence, and sometimes things had be sacrificed for the greater good—

Something pinwheeled through the Forces, hitting him like an unexpected sandstorm. It was a sense of joy and satisfaction so pure that it shook Ben right out of Obi-Wan's thoughts. Tentatively, he stretched out with his senses, but he already knew what he would find—Luke's unique signature in the Force was too similar to his father's for Obi-Wan not to recognize it. But there was something else out there too, he realized with a frown, something that had felt the boy's sudden happiness and had taken a morbid curiosity in it. Concentrating, he pursued that Other, stretching out through the Force until he was nearly off Tatooine altogether.

The Other turned greedily upon him before breaking the connection abruptly. Obi-Wan shuddered as a chill raced through him; he knew that mind so very well, yet it had seemed more divided than ever. Darth Vader was orbiting around Tatooine, preparing to land on the planet, but there was something about him that seemed more… Skywalker than Vader. That made Obi-Wan pause but, despite his sudden hope, Vader still posed a danger, especially now that he'd felt and taken an interest in Luke. If he found the boy, he'd know what Luke meant to him on sight, he would know that he had a son. And if Vader figured that much out, what would be to stop him from finally seeing Leia for what she truly was?

Sithspit! It looked like Fate had taken any choice of what to do with the twins out of his hands.

* * *

A/N: Welcome to another edition of Ergott Writes Something Completely Cliched! I haven't tried my hand at Star Wars before (that I will willingly acknowledge), so this ought to be fun.

But there's something you all should know before we delve any further into this madness: like most people my age, I was just the tiniest bit bewildered by the Prequels. I mean, I was born at the tail end of the 80's, so I grew up with the Original Trilogy until I was bombarded by the Prequels in Junior High and High School. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed them for the most part, but I already had the classic story firmly in mind, and the prequels just weren't up to snuff. This story is sort of my own way of reconciling one with the other, of smoothing over the discrepancies that bothered me; it's also my sorry, _sorry_ attempt at satire, but you are more than welcome to ignore that if you'd like. That being said, I'd like to point out that I've only seen the Prequels about once each (except for The Phantom Menace, which I've seen several times), I have not watched any of the cartoons, or read any of the comics or novels. Most of my knowledge just comes from an obsessive ritual of watching the Original Trilogy whenever I get sick—facts are going to be wrong or misunderstood and I beg your patience on that score. Also, both in an attempt to bridge the gap between the Trilogies and to write an AU, a lot of the characters here may appear out-of-character (as I've already warned you with Vader and Palpatine).

Disclaimer: My intro was a little Diskworld-esque, so credit goes to Terry Pratchett for inspiration. Also, I own nothing from the Star Wars Universe.


	2. Flip Two

**Flipping Coins**

Flip Two

The twin suns of Tatooine blazed hotly over the arid desert lands, both of them an angry red as they began to descend from their zenith. All creatures took cover from the miserable heat, eagerly anticipating the cooler dusk hours. To one child, though, the suns had ceased to exist; to Luke Skywalker, nothing existed outside the small garage that he and the two droids were in. His world had shrunk to such a small place, and yet to him it was the best place to be. Ignoring the sand-swept walls and the tables full of spare, disassembled machine parts, ignoring the oil stains and the hopeless dreams that clung to the room, Luke stared dumbly at C3P0 as something surged within him. Tatooine was a bleak and crushing planet, but it could not defeat Luke's joy this time.

His father, he though excitedly, these droids had known his father!

"You really do look quite like him," Threepio told the young boy animatedly, "particularly when he was assembling me."

"Were you with him for a long time?" Luke asked, to which Artoo hummed an agreement. "Could you tell me about him, then? I never knew my father."

An eerie silence followed that statement, which the droids quickly attempted to fill, but something about it had felt _wrong_. Luke didn't meet new people very often, but whenever he told someone that he'd never known his parents they always wanted to know why, or at least offered him their sympathy. The droids had done neither, as if they'd _known_ his father was dead. Had they been there when—

Luke shook the thought away. Even if they had, he didn't want to know of his father's death; he had a chance now to learn of how the man had lived, and that was all he'd ever wanted.

"He was exceedingly talented," Threepio broke through Luke's momentary haze, "and quite adventurous." He paused, then made an exasperated sound. "I'm making a mess of this, aren't I? I'm no good at telling stories, sir."

"No, please," Luke begged, "don't stop! I don't care what you tell me—just tell me something, _anything_. I know so little about my father," he finished sadly.

Threepio turned to regard his mechanical companion. Artoo wheeled back and forth a few times, almost nervously, his head swiveling as he let out a barrage of forceful little beeps and whistles.

"Very well," Threepio relented, turning back to the young boy. "Artoo will tell the story, as he knows more of it in any case, and I shall translate."

"Thank you," Luke breathed quietly, so relieved that he barely spared a glance at the workbench he hoisted himself onto. Then, his legs swinging over the edge of the table, he listened intently as the blue astromech droid began to let loose a small symphony of chirps and hums.

"Our story begins," Threepio translated after a few moments, "in a curious little junkshop not far from here, in a place called Mos Espa."

* * *

Vader could only recall having been to the city of Mos Eisley twice in his life, and he still hated it on sight. Creatures of all size, description, and levels of sentience scurried about the busy spaceport—hocking wares, escaping the heat in shady cantinas, searching for transports, looking to waste a few hours or perhaps a lifetime—the city was buzzing with activity. It reminded him eerily of Mos Espa; all it needed was a greedy Toydarian and a blond haired slave, and it would become a new level of hell for him.

As he'd stepped off his personal shuttle, for once blessedly free from bumbling officers and scared troopers, he had hesitated for a moment. Tatooine was a bittersweet world for him; memories of his mother pricked too closely to the surface, reminding him of everything he'd lost over the years. And yet it was here that he'd met Padmé, here that he had learned to build and to race, here that he had met Qui-Gon. Master Qui-Gon Jinn had been the closet thing to a father Anakin had ever know, no matter how short their acquaintance had been. He couldn't help but wonder how different his life might have turned out if Qui-Gon had survived his encounter with the Sith. Not that Obi-Wan had been terrible to the young Anakin, but he hadn't really been fatherly either. They'd gotten to know each other in a dark period, thrown together like young orphans in their grief for the late Master Jinn.

Obi-Wan! Vader seized on that thought, used it to drag himself from the past. Obi-Wan was why he had pushed through his hesitation. He'd felt the searching touch of his former master's mind not long ago—and he'd been immediately haunted by curiosity. What was Kenobi doing on Tatooine? It wasn't a particularly good hiding place, in all honesty; true, Vader would have never come here voluntarily, but there were other places that he wouldn't have been likely to go, places that Kenobi had definitely known better. Did this have anything to do with the joy he'd felt shrieking through the Force earlier? Was it possible that Kenobi had found that Force-sensitive and was, even now, training a new Jedi? It was an unsettling thought; he barely knew what he would do when faced with Obi-Wan once more, let alone the man's half-trained apprentice.

An uneasy feeling latched around Vader's heart, like he was standing at the edge of a cliff and was about to throw himself into the abyss. No, he shook himself; he was just being fanciful, if he could ever truly use that word to describe himself. Things were simple: he was on a mission. He would confront Kenobi in whatever way he had to, satisfy his curiosity about the overly jubilant Force-sensitive, find the droids, and get away from this blasted hunk of space-grit as fast as possible. It was a short, concise chain of events.

And he had a horrible suspicion that none of it was going to go according to plan.

* * *

"Are you sure he was a slave?" Luke asked for what felt like the tenth time.

"Oh yes," Threepio confirmed, "quite sure."

The young boy frowned. "Uncle Owen never said anything about that." Granted, that wasn't the sort of thing you really told a nine year old about his father.

"Well, your uncle never knew him as a slave," Threepio gave a stiff, jerking shrug, "but that's getting ahead of the story."

Luke stared off into nothingness, his mind already whirling with what he had learned. His father had been a slave, true, but he'd also been a mechanic—like Luke!—and a podracer, which was beyond amazing in his mind. He'd always wanted to try his hand at racing, to reach that nearly sacred state of being where a pilot practically became one with his ship, but Aunt Beru had said he wasn't allowed to fly the family speeder for another year at least. It seemed strange, somehow, that even as a slave Anakin had had more opportunities to live than his son was being given.

"Your father won his freedom in a podrace," Threepio continued over his thoughts, "and he was taken off Tatooine by the Jedi. Sadly, this is the point where I leave the story for quite a number of years."

"So the Jedi took him in?" Luke questioned. He had dreamt many things about his father throughout his lonely childhood, but he had never imagined _that_.

"Yes," Threepio nodded while Artoo whistled. "After Master Jinn died—which was quite a tragedy, I'm told—your father became the apprentice of Obi-Wan Kenobi."

"Kenobi?" Luke frowned, drawing his legs up onto the workbench.

"Do you know him, sir?" the droid asked.

"No," Luke shook his head, "but I've heard of a Ben Kenobi before; maybe they're related."

* * *

Obi-Wan was in a mild state of panic. A few years ago that would have earned him a jab to the knees by Master Yoda but, unfortunately, no one was around to snap him out of it this time.

Vader was on the planet; he could feel that just as clearly as he knew Vader could feel him. He also knew that the Sith Lord had felt Luke, and would be curious about that Force-sensitive mind. The only thing that was separating the man from his son were a few short miles, and if those miles were bridged then the Jedi's plan to save the galaxy would come tumbling down like a house of cards. His only hope was to make it to the Lars' homestead before Vader found him.

And then what? Even if he managed to find Luke before fate closed in around the both of them, he wouldn't have enough time to hide boy; Vader was too close.

It was at times like this that Obi-Wan wished he had been less of a hermit; he had a swoop bike, of course, for the rare occasions that he went into a town for a few supplies, but it was a rickety old thing that had trouble keeping a constant speed. Before, he'd had doubts that it would last out the year, now he had doubts that it would even last his daredevil race to the Lars' homestead. It wasn't as if he had any other options, however. So, with an uneasy feeling ringing down to his very toes, Obi-Wan mounted his bike and set off across the Jundland Wastes.

* * *

"So my father was really a Jedi?" Luke interrupted the droids' story once more. His uncle had long told him that his father had been a navigator, but he had never particularly believed that. It hadn't _felt_ right. Still, out of all the fantastic things he'd dreamt of his father doing, becoming a Jedi hadn't been one of them.

"Yes," Threepio nodded. "Though I'm given to understand that the Jedi Council was initially against it."

Luke frowned. "Why?"

"I'm afraid I don't know, sir," the droid answered. "The Jedi are terribly mysterious, and it is not often clear why they do the things they do until long after the fact. They're perfectly illogical creatures, if you ask me."

Artoo beeped and hummed a little, almost sadly, though Luke had no idea what he was saying.

"Shall I continue?" Threepio asked after a weighty pause.

"I have another question," the young boy said hesitantly. "Why does Padmé keep returning to the story?"

Threepio didn't seem surprised by the question, although it was hard tell since he had no facial expressions. "She was important to Anakin," he answered.

Something heavy settled around Luke's heart. "She was my mother, wasn't she?" He already knew the answer, but if living with the Lars family had taught him only one thing it was that he had to ask, because people were disturbed when he knew the answers before he'd voiced the question.

Neither droid answered, but their silence was all the confirmation he needed.

He'd never wondered much about his mother before but now, after learning a tiny bit about her, he was insatiably curious. And to think, he'd been so worried that his friends would make fun of his family, when all along his mother had been a _queen_! A sudden thought popped into his head. "Does that make me a prince?"

The protocol droid seemed flustered for a moment. "I don't think so," he finally answered. "Your mother was _elected_ to be the Queen of Naboo, and was a Senator when you were born."

Son of a queen or son of a Senator, it didn't really matter; it was still heady stuff to a nine year old. "Man, my parents were awesome!" Luke burst out in amazement. "My father was a Jedi and my mother was a queen! I wonder why my aunt and uncle never told me any of this?"

His life was changing, bit-by-bit. He was still Luke the orphan, but now he was the orphan of Important People. His parents had been adventurous explorers, which explained his own lust for action. He wanted to see things beyond the moisture farm, to soar among the stars like his parents had before him.

* * *

Vader had met him about halfway through the Dune Sea, and what should have been an honorable duel between rivals had devolved into a drag race, because Obi-Wan had refused to get off his bike. Of course, Vader had the superior piloting skills, but Obi-Wan's erratic vehicle had kept both of them on their toes. The Sith had tried multiple times to cut the older man off, but the bike had always slowed down or sped up at just the right moment, forcing Vader to veer away. After a while, Vader had obviously grown frustrated, ramming his speeder into Obi-Wan.

Now they were locked in a lightsaber duel, and Obi-Wan couldn't help but feel that neither of them really had their hearts in it. It was all so perfunctory—a parry here, a thrust there, neither one of them landing any hits or gaining any ground. The fight was approaching a farce, they were both so distracted.

"Why are we doing this?" Obi-Wan asked over the spitting hiss of the two colliding blades.

"It is expected of us, is it not?" Vader mocked quietly. "The noble Jedi must fight the evil Sith."

"True," Obi-wan conceded. "But I'm not entirely noble and you aren't entirely evil, so why are we doing this?"

Vader swung his saber in a wide arc. "Why would say I'm not entirely evil?"

Obi-Wan almost smiled at the fact that the younger man didn't contest Kenobi calling himself less than noble. "Your mind is too divided, too unfocused. How can you hope to be purely one thing or another if you can't even keep your thoughts uniform?"

Vader extinguished his blade with a frustrated sigh. "I have long plotted my revenge against you, Kenobi, but now that the moment is here I fear it will only leave me feeling…"

"Guilty?" Obi-Wan offered, tentatively extinguishing his own blade.

Vader shook his head. "Hollow," he replied, as though there were much of a difference. "I sense something else at work here; the Force has been peculiarly active on Tatooine today."

Obi-Wan shifted nervously, but remained silent. And, though it was impossible to tell through the face mask, he got the distinct impression that the younger man's eyes were now narrowed on him in calculation.

"You're harboring a Force-sensitive here," Vader accused hotly.

Kenobi denied it instantly. "No, I'm not."

"You're lying," Vader almost sounded incredulous at that.

"Of course I am," Obi-Wan replied plainly. "How else do you expect me to respond to that statement?"

Vader growled lowly, not at all amused by the Jedi's patronizing attitude. "I will find the child," he warned.

"And do what?" Obi-Wan asked, hiding his fear at the very thought. "You couldn't even bring yourself to fight me—someone you hate. I doubt very much that you could bring yourself to slaughter this unknown child. Besides," he added, turning to the smoldering wreckage of their vehicles, "you destroyed the only transportation out in these wastes."

Vader seemed to stare at the twisted machines for a long time, and Obi-Wan was certain he could almost here the mental cursing that was going on behind the younger man's expressionless mask.

"Well, I hope you're satisfied with your revenge," Kenobi taunted him further. It wasn't a very Jedi-like thing to do, but if he could force Vader's focus away from Luke, then it was worth it.

"Yes, I've always wanted to be stranded in the Dune Sea with a man who is as likely to lecture me as the suns are to continue rising and setting," Vader huffed quietly.

Obi-Wan stared at him oddly, momentarily forgetting the urgency of the situation. Even coming out of the deep bass vocoder, that statement had sounded so much like Anakin. It was eerie, really.

The Dark Lord of the Sith turned to the older man fully. "That was sarcasm," he offered after a pause.

"Yes, I'd gathered that," Obi-Wan replied bemusedly. And, despite everything—all the years of uncertainty and torment—he felt as though he had suddenly been thrust back in time, on another madcap adventure with the impetuous Chosen One.

* * *

Luke knew his mouth was hanging open, but he couldn't help it. "Count Dooku _cut off_ his _arm_?!" he asked shrilly, darting an incredulous look between the two droids.

"Yes," Threepio confirmed while Artoo swiveled his dome-shaped head, "and prosthetics weren't nearly as advanced then as they are now, so he had an arm made entirely of metal for a while."

Luke stared disbelievingly at his own arm, trying to imagine what it would be like if it were gone. Of course, a prosthetic could make a person fully functional once more, but he had a feeling that he would be hyperaware of it. Prosthetics had gotten to the point were most people couldn't tell the difference between machine and flesh, but he would always know. If Luke lost his arm, he _knew_ he would feel where the machine attached to his flesh, would feel the difference between his body and some foreign part.

How awful that must have been for his father!

* * *

Darth Vader had often found himself irretrievably bored over the past nine years. Of course, he got his kicks in where he could. Once, he'd altered the sound pattern of his respirator just to mess with his crew, but had stopped before long as it had made him somewhat lightheaded. It had really been more depressing than it had been amusing.

That was rather how he felt at the moment: bored and frustrated. He was supposed to have exacted his well-earned revenge, and instead he found himself trudging through the blazing desert sands with the very man he should have killed. But he hadn't found the strength to do it; his hatred had been oddly elusive. Even looking at Obi-Wan now, it was hard not to think of the man as his master; a bastard, certainly, but still his master. There were a few extra gray hairs, and he seemed a little more tanned, but Kenobi was largely unchanged. It brought back memories, good and bad, and that made it all the harder to rally against the older man.

He was suffering from a peculiar and completely unwarranted case of compassion.

"You are oddly silent, Darth," Obi-Wan said suddenly, keeping pace beside the younger man as they both wandered aimlessly through the desert.

"My apologies," Vader replied mockingly. "Obviously, we should be comparing lightsaber techniques, perhaps even exchanging tailors." He snorted, which was a decidedly strange sound coming out of the mask. "Afraid that the heat will drive you crazy, old man?"

Obi-Wan sighed. "Well, you're certainly still as sarcastic as always."

Vader shook his head. "You know, I'm more or less the same person I was before, which is kind of a let down."

"What about Mustafar?" Obi-Wan frowned.

"I plead insanity," Vader shrugged. "Angry, angry insanity." He sighed heavily when the old man continued to regard him strangely. "Palpatine knew how to play me; he knew what I wanted and how to promise it to me without actually delivering any results. I fell fast and hard, and I did terrible things. He blinded me to the truth until it was too late."

"And what truth was that?" Obi-Wan asked curiously.

"That giving in to my hatred only makes me an angry person," Vader replied quietly. "There might be power in the Dark Side, but there is no peace."

Obi-Wan snorted. "Peace is very much out of your character. Do you even want it?"

"Wouldn't you?" the younger man snapped. "Everything I sought to protect is gone; I have nothing now but my own disquiet. That's a barren life, Kenobi, and if it continues there will be nothing left of me." And the hardest part of that statement was that he couldn't figure out if he meant nothing left of him emotionally, or nothing left of Anakin.

Kenobi's sage-like eyes cut into him, seeing more than just the physical world. "Do you fear the bleakness of your future?"

Vader shook his head. "I resent it."

A half-smile quirked the Jedi's lips, and a scheme began to shine through his eyes. "Do you still despise me?" he asked carefully.

"What are you playing at, old man?" Vader countered suspiciously. Obi-Wan was a tricky man, and not to be approached without caution; one of Obi-Wan's schemes was doubly deadly, and not to be approached at all. Still, aside from finding those two droids, it wasn't as though he had anything else to do at the moment.

"Well," Kenobi's smile widened, "there's one thing that betrayal can teach us better than anything else ever could."

"And what's that?" Vader asked, feeling as though he were walking headlong into a trap.

"How to forgive," Obi-Wan replied gently.

Vader's denial was immediate, "No."

"Why not?" Kenobi countered seriously. "You betrayed the Order and I betrayed you; we're dubiously even." He shrugged. "Now we have a mutual goal in common—the death of the Empire—so what's to stop us from combining our strength?"

"I refuse to beg my former master for help," Vader hissed. Although, some part of him conceded, it wasn't a terrible idea. He and Obi-Wan had fought well together during the Clone Wars, they had never lacked for excitement, and it wasn't as though he hadn't been planning to overthrow the Empire anyway.

"Pride is not the way of the Jedi," Obi-Wan countered, almost immediately falling into his old mentoring habits.

Vader almost laughed. "Neither is becoming a Sith, and yet…"

Kenobi's smile took on a familiar edge. "There is much darkness in you Anakin Skywalker, but a Sith you are not."

"But," Vader stopped in his tracks, at a suddenly loss. "I gave in to my hatred." If he wasn't a Sith, what was he? "I did horrible things for the Dark Side of the Force." If he wasn't a Sith, how could he atone for the crimes he had committed? "_I have a red lightsaber_!"

Obi-Wan snorted. "And because these things are true it must follow that you are evil?" he raised an eyebrow. "Yes, you did horrible things. Yes, you trampled roughshod over every decree the Order held sacred-"

Why did he suddenly feel like he was ten years younger, and receiving a lengthy lecture from his master? "Oh no, please, don't hold back on my account," Vader muttered sarcastically.

Obi-Wan ignored him. "-and I'm not even going to bother with how weak of an argument the color of your lightsaber is. My point is that no one is beyond redemption; I'm not saying that you haven't been changed by what you've done, but you have the chance to make amends. Weren't you just saying that you're more or less the same person?"

"Yes…" Vader trailed off uncertainly.

"You were right," Kenobi replied. "I sense something in you that screams Anakin Skywalker, something that no Sith could possibly have."

He wasn't sure he liked where this was going, but curiosity got the better of him. "And what's that?"

Obi-Wan smiled. "Hope."

* * *

"Wait," Luke frowned, "I thought you said that Jedi weren't allowed to marry."

"They weren't," Threepio agreed, "but Anakin and Padmé loved each other deeply, so they married in secret."

What did that say about his parents? That they loved each other, certainly, but there was more. For his father it had meant going against the decrees and wishes of the very people he had been so desperately trying to gain approval from; for his mother it had meant willfully ignoring her husband's rule-breaking and lying to everyone about their relationship. It tasted of selfishness on both their parts… but had it been _wrong_? Luke couldn't deny that without that union, he wouldn't have been around to ponder these thoughts, so it couldn't have been wrong to a fault—and who were the Jedi to regulate relationships anyway? Whatever bad had happened afterward—and he knew there had to be badness, otherwise he wouldn't have been an orphan—it had probably been the Jedi's fault for being so controlling. If he'd learned nothing else from the small school in Anchorhead, it was that the more stifled people felt, the more likely they were to rebel.

His thoughts would have continued that line of pondering, if not for his uncle. "Luke!" Owen's shout was clear, deep, and… frightened? Uncle Owen was never frightened!

But then, rising above his uncle's shouts, above the general hum of activity around the farm, Luke heard something that set his heart pounding. It was a painful, echoing noise, a piecing, screaming howl that carried through the air and set his nerves on edge.

Sandpeople.

* * *

A/N: I didn't think it would be a wise move for this story to recap the events of the Prequels step-by-step. That's not really the focus of the story. Obviously, I'm assuming that you've all seen them, or at least know their general plotlines. I don't really care for doing that, but it was necessary for the story to move on.

I have no idea where Mos Espa is in relation to the Lars' homestead. When Threepio says it's "not far from here," I think he's simply speaking from the point of view of someone who has literally traveled light-years across the galaxy.

Please Review!

Disclaimer: The tailor joke was from the Mark Hamill/Star Wars episode of The Muppet Show. Credit for the conversation on betrayal and forgiveness goes to the Jason Webley song, "Ways to Love". And, finally, I do not own anything from the Star Wars universe.


	3. Flip Three

**Flipping Coins**

Flip Three

Luke knew three things in life with absolute certainty. The first was that he would never make a good moisture farmer—he loved tinkering with the machinery, but his soul cried out for adventure. The second was that even though his aunt and uncle were uncommonly strict, they both loved him fiercely—enough to do whatever they could to protect him. And the third was that Sandpeople rarely attacked settlements—unless they were desperate. And desperate Sandpeople were far more dangerous than anything else Tatooine could foster.

"Get down," Luke told his companions. He jumped off the workbench and ran to the door, turning off the lights in the garage. "Go hide," he added. "They won't bother with droids unless you get in their way."

"But they're scavengers, aren't they?" Threepio asked worriedly, even as Artoo rolled himself into a corner and shut all his lights off.

"Yeah," Luke agreed, grabbing a drab colored tarp before he left, "but they're probably more after water and food right now." He dashed out of the garage, amazed how late it had gotten—Tatoo I had already dipped below the horizon. That worried him beyond measure; Sandpeople were dangerous during the day, but at night they were downright deadly. At night they could conceal their numbers, and travel in larger parties—and at night there was little hope of anyone coming to rescue their victims.

Filled with a dark disquiet, Luke huddled himself into the tarp; hopefully, in the dwindling visibility of twilight, he would blend in with his surroundings. As quickly as he could, he tried to make it to where he had heard his uncle shout from last but, in the gray shadows of the failing light, it was hard to tell what could be a droid or what could be a Raider. The air was filled with the shrieking howls of the invaders and the growing sounds of struggle, and it sent shivers down Luke's spine. If he couldn't get to Aunt Beru and Uncle Owen—

The thought was abruptly interrupted as something heavy struck Luke over the head.

* * *

They had wandered through the wastes for what felt like a small eternity, and Vader used that time to reflect upon how thoroughly he hated sand. As the hours dwindled by, both men refusing to let the intense heat bother them, the suns slowly sank until it was finally evening. The dark coolness of night began to pull at the sky, and already a chill descended upon them.

By all rights, it was a beautiful evening on Tatooine. But something felt wrong—the jubilant wave that had been rippling through the Force had suddenly iced over in fear. Where he had once thought the Force giggled, he know thought it raged—driven to find an outlet for the dread that the Force-sensitive child could not contain.

Kenobi's eyes widened as he felt the urgent pulses eddying around them. And then, just as suddenly, the sensation stopped. "Luke!" he barked, he tone lined with worry.

"Your apprentice?" Vader asked blandly, although it was hard to stay calm when the sense of wrongness began to overwhelm him. He frowned to himself—he'd never met the boy, yet he seemed innately effected by that unique signature in the Force. Perhaps because there were so few Force users left?

"I'm not training anyone," Kenobi snapped, but revealed nothing further about the boy. He stopped for a moment, trying to ascertain where the ethereal cry had come from, but it was clear that even though the child's fears had been quieted, he was moving—or being moved. Motions overshadowed with urgency, the Jedi turned quickly to his left and began to trot away at an ever-increasing rate.

Vader eyed his former master curiously. Obi-Wan had been many things in the past, but never easily panicked. Who was this child to work the old general into such a lather? With a sigh, Vader followed. He had nothing better to do with his time, and this was quickly turning into a riddle—once already this child had caught his attention, and now Kenobi was running off to battle—what child could mean so much, if not an apprentice?

By the time he finally caught up with Kenobi, the older man had reached the edge of a short cliff. Below them, bathed in the flickering light of a fire, was a small encampment of Tusken Raiders. They were beastly creatures—they walked like men, but a heart of savagery beat within every last one of them. No one knew for sure what a Raider looked like, only that from the time of birth they protected every inch of their skin from the Tatooine suns with whatever rags they could lay their hands on.

Vader surveyed the scene before them, trying to swallow down bitter memories. He felt the elusive Luke below them, but saw no one save for the Sandpeople. Surely this child Kenobi was so concerned over wasn't a Tusken Raider!

* * *

Luke slowly came to, the base of his skull throbbing where he'd been hit, but his eyes opened only to darkness. For one delirious moment, he thought he'd gone blind, then realized that the Sandpeople must have tied him up in the tarp he'd been using as camouflage. He could hear the creatures grunting and howling around him, and if he strained his eyes, he could almost make out the glow of a fire through the densely woven fabric.

Panic set in on Luke. Where were Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru? Why had the Sandpeople captured him? _Because you're young_, the horrible thought ran through his head, _small enough to eat._

The canvas pressed in on him from all sides, smothering him. He was trapped. Luke's mind began to race; in such a confined space, without his sight or any sort of comfort, the Raiders began to seem more like monsters than they ever had. He had to get out; he had to get free!

With a cry, Luke began to claw at the tarp, his fear and panic rising until he thought he would explode with it.

* * *

Obi-Wan dove into the encampment, horror weighing him down. _Not like this_, he thought desperately, _don't let father and son meet like this_. He could feel Luke's growing desperation, could feel the fright that was building up in the young boy, building up in the Force. And distantly, through a long forgotten channel, he could feel Vader's growing anger, could feel the memories slowly blinding his former apprentice. It was inevitable now that Luke and Vader would meet, but to do so here, like _this_… he shivered at the thought.

The Raiders drew back in surprise and fright at first; they were naturally skittish creatures, but being in their own encampment bolstered their elusive bravery. Obi-Wan didn't want to fight them—it seemed cruel somehow to match gaffi sticks against a lightsaber—but Luke's fear was drawing him closer and closer to the Dark Side, and the boy's father was one provocation away from slaughtering anything that moved.

With a battle cry he hadn't uttered in nearly a decade, Obi-Wan Kenobi abandoned Ben and unleashed the warrior that had once raged inside him.

* * *

Outwardly, it appeared as though Vader were only taking a passive interest in the ongoing battle, but inwardly he was shaking. The tide of his anger and frustration was slowly rising, kept only in check by the fear he felt swelling around him. Not from the Raiders, though—they were war-like to a fault, and were enjoying the unexpected fight that had broken out. No, the fear he felt was coming from a wriggling sack, not twenty feet away from him. The Force-sensitive was beyond panicked—reaching blind terror—and Vader moved to free him.

He didn't make it more than a few steps before the sack was shredded from the inside out. The Force stormed around the boy, decimating the fabric that had held him prisoner. He seemed understandably disoriented, bruised and shivering, though largely unhurt. But, in that moment, as Vader's masked gaze collided with unseeing, frightened blue eyes, the past finally consumed him. His mother had given him the same look as she'd died, bloody and broken, surrounded by the scum of Tatooine's deserts. It was a look of bewilderment and despair, fear and loneliness, and it hurt him just as keenly now as it had then.

Vader stepped forward, igniting his ruby blade.

* * *

Luke gazed around himself dazedly, taking in the bright flashes of blaster rifles and laser swords without really seeing anything. He felt drained somehow, and cold, though he couldn't place his finger on why. His fight out of the tarp had been fierce and futile until, with an explosive suddenness, it had blown itself apart. He began to ponder the mystery of that, his eyes trailing off into the darkness.

The boy's inattention abruptly ended when a Tusken Raider grabbed him by the arm.

Somewhere in the distance, a man shouted, "No!" But the sound hadn't been anywhere near close enough to offer help.

Cursing his luck, Luke screamed long and loud, struggling against his assailant as best he could. But the Raider's grip quickly slackened as a glowing red blade sliced through its arm. The creature fell back with an agonized howl, leaving Luke alone with the dismember appendage. He tore the severed arm off, throwing it away from himself, and screamed again for good measure.

And then another voice rose out of the darkness, as rich and deep as the night itself. "Kindly stop shrieking, child; you sound like a Jawa being shot out of an airlock."

Luke startled as the darkness seemed to shift, revealing a frighteningly tall man, draped in black from his full helmet down to his booted feet, save for the red lightsaber he held in his hands.

The man shifted in from of Luke, placing himself between the boy and the Sandpeople who had realized he was their weakest enemy. "Stay behind me," the man in black commanded, flipping his lightsaber around with expert precision.

Luke obeyed, watching as the man began to slice his way through the oncoming Raiders. Was he dreaming, he wondered surreally? He recognized the man before him from one of his uncle's Holovids; it was Darth Vader, Dark Lord of the Sith, and the second most powerful man in the galaxy. But why was Vader on a planet like Tatooine at all, let alone rescuing someone like Luke? Surely the Dark Lord had better things to do with his time, not that Luke wasn't grateful.

His ponderings were again interrupted as something wet and warm hit his face. Luke swallowed thickly, ignoring the sticky trickles that were now trailing down his cheeks, and pulled the object away from him. He stared at it dumbly for a moment, before realizing he'd been hit by a severed hand. Bile burned the back of his throat as he quickly dropped it and scrambled away. He didn't make it more than a few steps, though, before he was inexplicably dragged back.

"I said, stay behind me," Vader warned, not even sparing a glance at Luke.

He glared at the adult's back. "Then stop tossing body parts in my direction," he snapped.

The other man—the one he had heard shout before—came up behind him, although Luke wasn't sure how he knew it since he never turned around and never heard the man coming. Silently, the new stranger circled around into the boy's view, extinguishing his blue lightsaber as he bent to kneel in front of the younger man.

Luke eyed him warily, but didn't resist when he began to wipe at the boy's face—Luke was too busy trying to ignore the fact that it was _blood_ being wiped away.

"Are you hurt?" the man asked, his voice soothing and lightly accented.

"Just emotionally," Luke answered sourly, fighting his growing nausea.

The man chuckled, flashing a gentle smile. "He can be overwhelming," he nodded toward the black-clad figure.

"Not Vader," Luke shook his head. "It's just that I've never seen so many limbs not attached to their bodies." He paused, then admitted, "I don't think I'm going to sleep tonight."

"It's just as well," the man replied, running his hand over the back of Luke's skull. "You've probably got a concussion."

Luke didn't bother asking what that meant. "I have to get home," he told the man quietly, absently noting that the few remaining Raiders were desperately trying to flee. "My family's probably worried sick." He didn't bother voicing his fear that there would be no Uncle Owen or Aunt Beru to go back to—the thought was too horrible to entertain.

* * *

Vader finally extinguished his blade, inwardly sneering as he watched the last few Raiders disappear into the open deserts. His victory left him feeling hollow, just as it had last time—no matter how many times he purged this particular demon, his mother could never be brought back. The boy had survived though, he reminded himself, so that was something. Not that he really had any reason to care.

With a discontented sigh, he turned around, immediately confronted with the sight of Kenobi coddling the child. He frowned—that was disturbing in and of itself; Obi-Wan had never been overly demonstrative. What was so important about this one boy, Vader wondered?

His frown deepened as he studied Luke. The child was dressed in simple homespun, stained now with the gore of battle. He was pale and small, an unlikely match for Tatooine. A shaggy mop of dark blond hair covered his head, partially hiding his icy blue eyes. There was something vulnerable about the boy, despite how intensely the Force seemed to swirl around him—a certain fragility and desperation clung to him, as though he didn't know how he fit into the universe.

It was all frighteningly familiar to Vader's eyes, as if Tatooine had forged a copy of his childhood self, just to spite him. He stepped toward the boy, a suspicious thought clawing at his mind. The child looked to be about eight or nine years old—exactly the amount of time Padmé had been dead. His mind began to whirl with possibilities. Could the baby have survived its mother's death? Was Vader even now standing in the presence of _his_ _son_? It would explain Kenobi's involvement, if nothing else. But it was a hard thought to swallow—he'd been a father for nine years and he hadn't known it—and there were other possibilities. Had this little clone of Anakin also been conceived by the Force, in a dire attempt to balance out what Vader and Palpatine had wrought? It was unlikely, but not unheard of, he thought as he finally drew even with the pair in front of him.

Kenobi stood the moment Vader drew too close, placing himself between the boy and the black giant. "He needs to be getting home," Obi-Wan said to cover his actions, before pulling Luke close and trotting off into the desert.

"Answer me something," Vader murmured quietly, matching strides with the quickly retreating Jedi. "Who does the boy live with?" Not, 'Who is his family?' He was fairly certain Kenobi would never answer, 'You,' even if it was the truth.

Obi-Wan hesitated, then sighed deeply in resignation. "The Larses," he answered.

"Owen and Beru Lars?" he wondered, frowning.

Luke's head swiveled in Vader's direction, his blue eyes wide and curious. "You know my Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru?" he asked. "Man, first those droids knew my father, and now Darth Vader knows my aunt and uncle. This has been the weirdest day ever!"

Vader's eyes cut to Kenobi. "His aunt and uncle?" he asked acerbically, distantly noting that the Force was playing tricks on them all if the boy had come into possession of the very droids he had been sent to retrieve.

But Obi-Wan didn't rise to his bait; the old man remained silent as they trekked toward the homestead that was just now coming into view.

An uncomfortable silence descended upon the rest of the journey, the only sound being Luke's muffled attempts to make conversation before Kenobi shushed him, lest he say something incriminating. By the time they reached the outer perimeter of the homestead, however, the air came alive with the desperate shouts of panicked adults.

"Luke?" a woman hollered, her voice edged with tears.

"Luke Skywalker, you come out this instant, before you give your poor aunt a heart attack!" a stern-sounding, but obviously worried man called into the still night.

_Skywalker._ Vader's heart skipped a beat as his suspicions were confirmed. He turned to the boy with new eyes. _His son._

* * *

Luke felt his relief as keenly as if he'd been hit with a bucket of water. His family was all right! "Uncle Owen, Aunt Beru!" he crowed, dashing forward. "I'm up here!"

Two figures peeked out from the sunken home before they both ran for Luke. Aunt Beru caught him in a tight hug, choking back her tears even as she clucked worriedly over his bloodstained appearance. Uncle Owen stood to the side, laying a trembling hand on Luke's shoulder. His uncle wasn't a man given to fits of emotion, but Luke knew he'd scared him badly.

Someone coughed politely, breaking up the family reunion.

Uncle Owen turned to face the noise, his eyes narrowing. "Kenobi?" he asked with a frown. "You rescued our boy?"

There was an eruption of sound and movement so violent that it was hard to follow. In the exact moment that Luke dashed forward to ask the startled man, "Kenobi? Are you Ben or Obi-Wan?" Vader seemed to bleed out of the darkness, roaring, "_Your_ boy?" Aunt Beru began to scream and Uncle Owen pulled Luke behind him as he started to bicker with the Dark Lord of the Sith.

"Like you have any claim to the boy—"

"You stole him away from his rightful family—"

"Keep him away from us, Owen!"

"—raised him like our own—"

"—kept him hidden on this Force forsaken sandpit of a planet—"

"Seriously, which Kenobi are you?"

"—it's not like he's yours, anyway; Beru had a brother—

"—and don't you dare lie to me, Owen Lars; mother would be ashamed—"

"—and the boy was his. You want to talk shame, Vader?"

"Don't even think about it!"

"Who's the one that turned to the Dark Side, huh? You think Shmi would be proud of that?"

"I'm going to disembowel you, Lars; I never wanted a brother anyway!"

"_Enough!_" Kenobi bellowed, startling everyone into silence. He breathed deeply for a moment, then turned to the boy. "Luke, why don't you go off to bed—"

Luke frowned. "I thought I wasn't supposed to go to sleep?"

Kenobi ignored him. "—the adults need to talk."

His frown deepened. "Fine," he murmured sulkily. "It's not like I wanted to know what the heck you were all shouting about anyway. I'll just go see if the droids made it through the attack."

* * *

Obi-Wan watched as Luke disappeared into a garage, then turned back to the assembled family. He could already feel a headache pressing at his temples—the only consolation that he had received for his troubles so far was that Vader hadn't started slaughtering them all. No, the fallen Jedi had acted in the best way possible: he had acted like a recalcitrant Anakin. Perhaps there was hope that whatever ensued from this moment forward would not be a complete disaster.

"What are you doing here?" Beru broke the silence, pointing at Vader. "We were told that you would never return to Tatooine!"

"I was looking for a pair of droids," the Dark Lord answered, "and instead, I found a son."

Owen threw his hands up into the air. "I already told you, the boy isn't yours."

Vader laughed nastily. "Do you really expect me to believe that I have a nephew who isn't related to me by blood, but looks just like me?" He laughed again, the sound even darker this time. "You called him Skywalker—if you had really wanted to keep _my_ son out of notice, you should have changed his name."

"_We_ raised him," Beru put in bravely.

"You can't hold me accountable for something I never knew about," Vader hissed, then rounded on Obi-Wan. "And why is it that I never knew?" he asked accusingly.

Obi-Wan began to massage his temples. Nine years as a hermit with identity issues had not prepared him for this moment. He had ignored his memories for so long—he'd forgotten what it was like to deal with the Chosen One. _Give me strength, Master Qui-Gon_, he prayed, assessing the group before him. "The Council thought it best," he answered simply.

Vader growled and began pacing—his hatred of the Council had obviously not been soothed upon its demise.

"I had doubts," Obi-Wan continued, "but I was the only one qualified to look after the boy as he lived with his relatives."

"Qualified?" Vader asked disbelievingly.

"I practically raised you," Kenobi reminded. "There's nothing Luke can do that you haven't done before him; there's nothing he can do to surprise me."

Vader seemed almost a little too vindictively amused when they heard a loud crash coming from the garage.

* * *

A/N: After much puttering around and a little soul-searching, I've come back with the next chapter. Right now, I'm working on a large project with a friend though, so I can't say when the next one will be out.

This chapter is pretty heavy on the linebreaks, and I apologize for that. I often find it easier to keep everyone's thoughts in their own separate world, rather than integrate them together.

Please Review!

Disclaimer: I do not own the Star Wars universe.


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